'O stay," the maiden said, "and rest Thy weary head upon this breast!" A tear stood in his bright blue eye, But still he answered, with a sigh, Excelsior!

"Beware the pine-tree's withered branch! Beware the awful avalanche!"

This was the peasant's last good-night :
A voice replied, far up the height,
Excelsior!

At break of day, as heavenward
The pious monks of Saint Bernard
Uttered the oft-repeated prayer,

A voice cried, through the startled air,
Excelsior!

A traveller, by the faithful hound, Half buried in the snow was found, Still grasping in his hand of ice That banner with the strange device Excelsior!

There in the twilight cold and gray,
Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay,
And from the sky, serene and far,
A voice fell, like a falling star-
Excelsior!

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

A RIDDLE.*

THE LETTER "H."

'T WAS in heaven pronounced, and 't was muttered in hell,

And echo caught faintly the sound as it fell;
On the confines of earth 't was permitted to rest,
And the depths of the ocean its presence con-
fessed;

'T will be found in the sphere when 't is riven asunder,

Be seen in the lightning and heard in the thunder.
"I was allotted to man with his earliest breath,
Attends him at birth, and awaits him in death,
Presides o'er his happiness, honor, and health,
Is the prop of his house, and the end of his wealth.
In the heaps of the miser 't is hoarded with care,
But is sure to be lost on his prodigal heir.
It begins every hope, every wish it must bound,
With the husbandman toils, and with monarchs
is crowned.

Without it the soldier, the seaman may roam,
But woe to the wretch who expels it from home!
In the whispers of conscience its voice will be
found,

Nor e'en in the whirlwind of passion be drowned. 'T will not soften the heart; but though deaf be the ear,

It will make it acutely and instantly hear.
Yet in shade let it rest, like a delicate flower,
Ah, breathe on it softly, it dies in an hour.

CATHARINE FANSHAW,

THE GIFTS OF GOD.

FATHER LAND AND MOTHER TONGUE

OUR Father Land! and wouldst thou know
Why we should call it Father Land?

It is that Adam here below

Was made of earth by Nature's hand;
And he, our father made of earth,
Hath peopled earth on every hand;
And we, in memory of his birth,

Do call our country Father Land.
At first, in Eden's bowers, they say,
No sound of speech had Adam caught,
But whistled like a bird all day,

And maybe 't was for want of thought:
But Nature, with resistless laws,

Made Adam soon surpass the birds;
She gave him lovely Eve because
If he 'd a wife they must have words.

And so the native land, I hold,

By male descent is proudly mine; The language, as the tale hath told, Was given in the female line.

• Sometimes attributed to Byron.

And you, brave Cobham! to the latest breath Shall feel your ruling passion strong in death; Such in those moments as in all the past,

And, at the bottom, barbarous still and rude, We are restrained, indeed, but not subdued. The very remedy, however sure,

ALEXANDER Pope.

CONTRADICTION.

FROM "CONVERSATION.'

YE powers who rule the tongue, if such there

are,

And make colloquial happiness your care,
Preserve me from the thing I dread and hate,
A duel in the form of a debate.

The clash of arguments and jar of words,
Worse than the mortal brunt of rival swords,
Decide no question with their tedious length,
For opposition gives opinion strength,
Divert the champions prodigal of breath,
And put the peacefully disposed to death.
O, thwart me not, Sir Soph, at every turn,
Nor carp at every flaw you may discern!
Though syllogisms hang not on my tongue,
I am not surely always in the wrong;
"T is hard if all is false that I advance,
A fool must now and then be right by chance.
Not that all freedom of dissent I blame;
No, - there I grant the privilege I claim.
A disputable point is no man's ground;
Rove where you please, 't is common all around.
Discourse may want an animated No,

To brush the surface, and to make it flow;
But still remember, if you mean to please,
To press your point with modesty and ease.
The mark at which my juster aim I take,
Is contradiction for its own dear sake.
Set your opinion at whatever pitch,

Knots and impediments make something hitch;
Adopt his own, 't is equally in vain,
Your thread of argument is snapped again.
The wrangler, rather than accord with you,
Will judge himself deceived, and prove it too.
Vociferated logic kills me quite ;

A noisy man is always in the right.

I twirl my thumbs, fall back into my chair,
Fix on the wainscot a distressful stare,
And, when I hope his blunders are all out,
Reply discreetly, "To be sure
- no doubt!"

DUELLING.

WILLIAM COWPER.

FROM "CONVERSATION."

THE point of honor has been deemed of use, To teach good manners, and to curb abuse; Admit it true, the consequence is clear, Our polished manners are a mask we wear,

Tried, as it should be, by the fruit it bears.
'Tis hard, indeed, if nothing will defend
Mankind from quarrels but their fatal end;
That now and then a hero must decease,
That the surviving world may live in peace.
Perhaps at last close scrutiny may show
The practice dastardly and mean and low;
That men engage in it compelled by force,
And fear, not courage, is its proper source;
The fear of tyrant custom, and the fear
Lest fops should censure us, and fools should

sneer;

At least, to trample on our Maker's laws,
And hazard life for any or no cause,

To rush into a fixed eternal state
Out of the very flames of rage and hate,
Or send another shivering to the bar
With all the guilt of such unnatural war,
Whatever Use may urge, or Honor plead,
On Reason's verdict is a madman's deed.
Am I to set my life upon a throw
Because a bear is rude and surly? No,
A moral, sensible, and well-bred man
Will not affront me; and no other can.
Were I empowered to regulate the lists,
They should encounter with well-loaded fists;
A Trojan combat would be something new,
Let Dares beat Entellus black and blue;
Then each might show, to his admiring friends,
In honorable bumps his rich amends,
And carry, in contusions of his skull,
A satisfactory receipt in full.

FAME.

WILLIAM COWPER.

FROM "AN ESSAY ON MAN," EPISTLE IV.

WHAT'S fame? -a fancied life in others' breath,

A thing beyond us, e'en before our death. Just what you hear, you have; and what's unknown

The same (my lord) if Tully's, or your own.

All that we feel of it begins and ends
In the small circle of our foes or friends;

To all beside, as much an empty shade
A Eugene living as a Cæsar dead;
Alike or when or where they shone or shine,
Or on the Rubicon, or on the Rhine.
A wit's a feather, and a chief a rod ;
An honest man 's the noblest work of God.

FROM AN ESSAY ON MAN," EPISTLe iv.

HONOR and shame from no condition rise; Act well your part, there all the honor lies. Fortune in men has some small difference made, One flaunts in rags, one flutters in brocade; The cobbler aproned, and the parson gowned, The friar hooded, and the monarch crowned. "What differ more (you cry) than crown and cowl?"

I'll tell you, friend; a wise man and a fool. You'll find, if once the monarch acts the monk Or, cobbler-like, the parson will be drunk, Worth makes the man, and want of it the fellow; The rest is all but leather or prunella.

Stuck o'er with titles, and hung round with strings,

That thou mayst be by kings, or whores of kings;
Boast the pure blood of an illustrious race,
In quiet flow from Lucrece to Lucrece ;
But by your fathers' worth if yours you rate,
Count me those only who were good and great.

REASON AND INSTINCT.

FROM "AN ESSAY ON MAN," EPISTLE III

WHETHER with reason or with instinct blest, Know, all enjoy that power which suits them best; To bliss alike by that direction tend,

And find the means proportioned to their end.
Say, where full instinct is the unerring guide,
What pope or council can they need beside?
Reason, however able, cool at best,
Cares not for service, or but serves when prest,
Stays till we call, and then not often near;
But honest instinct comes a volunteer,
Sure never to o'ershoot, but just to hit ;
While still too wide or short is human wit,
Sure by quick nature happiness to gain,
Which heavier reason labors at in vain.
This too serves always, reason never long;
One must go right, the other may go wrong.
See then the acting and comparing powers
One in their nature, which are two in ours;
And reason raise o'er instinct as you can,
In this 't is God directs, in that 'tis man.

Who taught the nations of the field and wood
To shun their poison and to choose their food?
Prescient, the tides or tempests to withstand,
Build on the wave, or arch beneath the sand?
Who made the spider parallels design,
Sure as De Moivre, without rule or line?
Who bid the stork, Columbus-like, explore
Heavens not his own, and worlds unknown before?
Who calls the council, states the certain day,
Who forms the phalanx, and who points the way!

SCANDAL.

ALEXANDER POPE.

FROM "EPISTLE TO DR. ARBUTHNOT," BEING THE "PRO
LOGUE TO THE SATIRES."

CURSED be the verse, how well soe'er it flow,
That tends to make one worthy man my foe,
Give virtue scandal, innocence a fear,
Or from the soft-eyed virgin steal a tear!